Leaden Skies (22 page)
It felt as though she’d fallen into a hidden mine shaft. “A tunnel? Between Mrs. Sweet’s parlor house and Lynch’s saloon?”
“Yes.” It came out almost as a confession.
“When did you find out about this?”
“Just this afternoon. I went to the saloon and finally gained entrance to some of the rooms. They’ve been occupied until now. I found the door in the saloon. Partially hidden, but I’ve seen things like this before, so was alerted.”
“This sort of thing is common?”
His mouth twisted. The lines around his eyes made him look suddenly old, older than the streaked gray and brown hair would indicate. “Tunnels abound, Mrs. Stannert. Oh, not so much here in Leadville. I’ve mapped a few, though. A prominent banker here, for instance, has a tunnel that leads directly from his home to his bank. Handy for bad weather, when the streets are foul. Other tunnels are for more deceitful purposes. Tunnels between hotels or saloons, such as this one, and houses of ill repute. Not uncommon at all.”
Inez sat back, fighting a chill of comprehension.
A hidden passage. Lynch would know, and Flo. Who else?
“Have you identified where the other egress is, where it comes out in Mrs. Sweet’s building?” she asked cautiously.
He shook his head, his shoulders slumped. “I had only one opportunity to map the building, before Mrs. Sweet was incarcerated. And then, I only mapped the upper floors, nothing detailed on the main floor. I’d hoped, since you’ve been in there, that you could tell me the layout of the ground floor. And is there a basement or cellar? A house that substantial, I’d assume a cellar, at least.”
“I can help you there.” She decided that denial and demurral at this point would be futile and counterproductive. “However, let us, please, keep this between us. There are forces at work here, and if it was someone else’s hand at Lizzie’s throat, well, I needn’t tell you, they would be anxious that no one finds out.”
He nodded vigorously.
She slipped the pencil from its loop on the board and pulled a sheet of clean paper from beneath the maps and notes. “The front has a door and parlor to the left. The stairs are straight ahead with a hallway on the right.” She sketched quickly. “Down the hallway, there’s a door to a sizeable room underneath the stairs that stretches back quite a ways. Past that, a dining room. To the back, the kitchen and mud room, well, you know about those, you were sneaking around when you were caught with Lizzie.”
She looked up. He looked chastened. And guilty.
“I’m curious. Were you really just checking for a pulse when Danny and Molly surprised you?”
He reddened.
“Oh, never mind. It’s none of my business, and I make no accusations. Believe me, being part of State Street, I’ve learned to cast a jaundiced eye on so-called sins that hurt none but the sinner.”
She turned back to the map. “I’ve no idea if there’s a cellar. But this room,” she tapped Flo’s boudoir, “is the room where Lizzie died. I was just in there—don’t ask why, please—and I spotted a break in the wall. Right about here.” She darkened a portion of the wall. “A large armoire had been moved. It had blocked that part of the wall. The break had the shape of a door, at least as far as I could trace it. My examination was cut short by circumstances.”
He had pulled out his maps of the two buildings and was looking from them to her sketch, nearly aquiver with excitement. “You say it was a large room? Larger than expected for a private chamber?”
“Oh yes. Most definitely.”
“Adjoined to the front parlor?”
“Next to it. Between the front parlor and the dining room.” She stopped, beginning to see where his thoughts were heading.
He was speaking quickly. “I’ll bet it used to be the second parlor. It’s in the right place. Back parlors tend to be less used. In family residences, they’re informal, private areas.”
“I’m aware of that,” she said wryly.
He continued, as if he hadn’t heard. “I’ll bet this used to be a way for callers to move inconspicuously between the boarding house and the saloon. They could come through the tunnel into the second parlor, unseen, and proceed to the front parlor, the grand staircase, or even take the back staircase to the upper floors, if they were really bent on remaining unnoticed.”
“You seem to have a great knowledge of how bawdy houses work,” said Inez, then immediately regretted her words when the blood rushed up past his collar again. “Ah, I can add a bit more. The previous owner, who built this,” she tapped the brick parlor house, “was also the owner of this.” She tapped the saloon. “Mrs. DuBois kept a very upscale, discreet establishment. Like Flo, ah, Mrs. Sweet, only more so, I’d say. I’d not put it past Mrs. DuBois to have had such a secret passage. And once the two establishments had separate ownerships, well, I can imagine Mrs. Sweet would not necessarily want to carry on a clandestine business arrangement of this kind with Mr. Lynch.”
But I now see why Lynch is hankering after the whorehouse.
She sat back. “So, Zelda may have, indeed, been the unfortunate victim in this piece. Aside from Lizzie, that is.”
“Do you know where Zelda is?” He sounded so hopeful. So eager. “We could let her know what we’ve found. We could take this information to the police.”
“No!” It was said forcefully, without forethought. Inez softened her tone. “I think we need to pursue this a bit further, just the two of us. Who knows of the tunnel besides Lynch? Is it common knowledge? Certainly any of Flo’s women who were part of Mrs. DuBois’ house would know of it. If even just one survives from those times, it means that probably
all
of Flo’s girls are aware of it by now. Heavens. This may not be as easy as I thought to untangle.”
“I can find out.” He sounded anxious to help. “I’ll go talk to Lynch about it tomorrow. He was voluble. Liked talking about his business, his plans for expansion.”
“No doubt,” she said dryly. “While you do that, I shall make inquiries into Zelda’s whereabouts. No promises,” she hastened as his eyes brightened again, “but I’ll see if I can’t find her, deliver her the possibly good news, and see what she has to say. I am,” she pinned him sternly with a gaze, “uncommonly good at ferreting out liars. If I should have a chance to meet her, face to face, and she is lying to me about her involvement—”
or if you are about your intentions
— “I will know. Sooner or later.”
His hand closed convulsively on the sketch Inez had drawn. He stood up suddenly. “Thank you, Mrs. Stannert. I knew I came to the right person. Your trust in me is not misplaced.”
I hope so. I sincerely hope so.
As the clock ticked down the minutes to when she expected Reverend Sands to appear to escort her to the banquet in honor of General Grant, Inez reflected that it felt odd not to be preparing for the usual Saturday night poker game with her suite of gentleman “regulars.” But most of them were at the Veterans Hall reception for Grant and would no doubt be at the banquet. Jed Elliston was the only non-veteran in her circle of playing partners, but she suspected he was busy chasing ticket agents after hours and hunting down the particulars of his mystery typesetter.
Inez felt certain, with a natural gambler’s instinct for playing a hunch, that the prostitute Zelda and the typesetter Miss Thomas were one and the same. After all, how many women worked for any of the newspapers in town? A writer penning a society column here and there, if even that.
It must be the same woman.
Inez was so certain, she had even sent a willing street urchin out to search for Jed and bring him to the saloon, with the promise of a nickel should the small boy be successful. The urchin returned, so crestfallen in his failure, that Inez had given him a penny for trying.
In the light of her upstairs dressing room, Inez turned this way and that, checking the drape of her green velvet dress and whether the diamonds at her throat overwhelmed those on her earrings or bracelet. She remembered when Mark presented them to her, insisting that she wear them regularly: “We’ve got the funds, Darlin’. Consider it advertising, shows we’re successful, opens the doors to the high-rolling players.”
To her, it never made sense, though. Wouldn’t a gambler dripping with diamonds be a warning to astute players that they were in the presence of someone who made a living at cards, and opponents beware? Why put yourself up against a professional?
However, this was not her concern tonight. Tonight, she’d be seated at the reverend’s side, trying not to yawn through long speeches about the glory days of “The War of the Rebellion” and men’s valor in facing down the Southern enemy. Behind it all—the smiles, the inconsequential conversation—she’d be furiously thinking, conjecturing, trying to work out the whys and wherefores of what happened to Zelda and the connections to Jed’s precarious predicament.
She reached out a silk-gloved hand and gently touched a cabinet card, propped up on the top shelf of the washstand. She traced the outline of her son, captured on photographic paper and mounted on cardboard. He held his beloved toy from infancy, a stuffed rabbit, now showing definite signs of wear and missing one button eye. She swallowed the lump that rose in her throat unbidden.
Only one more month and she’d see him again.
Her thoughts switched then to a different cabinet card. The photograph in Flo’s private residence. An image of a baby, held in a grandfather’s arms. A half-finished letter.
A muffled knock brought her out of her reverie.
She exited the dressing room, went into the office, and opened the office door to Abe, who said, “Didn’t want t’ walk in and interrupt you. You got time to talk?”
“Certainly.” She retreated back inside, sat on the edge of her office chair, careful to not smash the satin flounces and bows down the back. She laid her ivory and silver fan on the desk blotter and said, “Actually Abe, since you’re here, I have a question for you.”
He sat, knees cracking, on the worn loveseat. “Fire away, Inez.”
“Does it make sense that a local policeman might have keys to various businesses and so on?”
“Mebbe. Can’t say I’d trust any of the law around here with the keys to our joint. We’d be outta liquor by mornin’, and a force with a powerful hangover.”
“Any reason you can think of for The Hatchet to have keys to Flo’s place?”
“The Hatchet?” Abe’s gray eyebrows arched. “Well now. I didn’t think he and Flo was on speakin’ terms after the business a couple days ago. He’s the one that pressed charges, right? Mebbe her stand-in thought hirin’ him for protection was a good idea ’til Flo gets out. What with the fire an’ all. Seems like lettin’ the fox in the hen house, but, he is the law. And the city collector at that. Probably could have keys to damn near any building in town, if’n he wants.”
“Hmmm.” She leaned back, forgetting about the flounces for a moment.
“So, you were visitin’ Flo’s place? Checkin’ out whether we oughta invest? Would make a fine hotel or proper boardin’ house, in contrast to the improper ones I know you don’t approve of. Mebbe a restaurant on the bottom floor. Could let Bridgette build a kitchen to her own liking. Might have to get her priest in there to sprinkle some holy water around the place or cast out the demons or some such afore she’ll set foot over the threshold. But still, I’m not above contributin’ some to her church fund or whatever they call it if it’ll help. With Bridgette in charge of the macaroni and beans end of things, we could make a killin’ in no time.”
Inez’s face grew uncomfortably warm. “Actually, I was there to extend the church’s helping hand to the unfortunate. You know, rescue a few souls. Encourage them to seek out the mission, should they need help.”
“Uh-huh.” Abe’s brown eyes took her in like a cardsharp watching a greenhorn try to bluff out a bad hand.
The uncomfortable silence stretched on. Finally, he sat back. “Look, Inez. We’ve ridden down a lot of roads together, sat at game tables side by side and across from each other. Been through good times and bad. I can tell there’s somethin’ you’re not tellin’ me. Somethin’ ’bout Flo’s place. You’ve been duckin’ and blowin’ smoke ev’rytime I bring up the subject of buying the building. So, what is it? You got a card up your sleeve or a con you’re pullin’ that I don’t know about?”
Inez swiveled side to side in the chair, making up her mind. “Okay, Abe. You’re right. There’s something I haven’t been straight with you about. But, in my defense, I was asked to keep this confidential.”
She swiveled to face the nearly wall-sized office window. Up here, on the second floor, it gave a view that ran all the way down State Street, including Flo’s three-story building and the faint outline of mountains beyond. Flickering lamplight in the rooms of the bordello was further dimmed by roller shades half-covering windows like a flirtatious woman lowering her eyelids to shield too bold a stare.
Finally she spoke. “Flo asked me to go in partners on her business, and I said yes.”
“You what?”
She turned back to look at him. “The business partnership is only temporary. It was a condition for buying the State Street building. As you know, she’s planning a move to Fifth Street. Going uptown to join the other high-flying madams. Winnie Purdy, Sallie Purple, and the rest. She needs capital for the new place, but isn’t ready to part with the one on State. So, by signing with her on the dotted line, I now own a portion of the State Street building, with the written understanding that I will eventually buy the rest when she’s ready to sell.”
Abe’s affect was neutral. “You tangled up with her new business at Fifth?”
“Only temporarily.” Inside, Inez squirmed. “And, well, since I’m telling all, there’s an added complication. A third partner, I don’t know who. Someone who is part of the Fifth Street business. It could be another madam, a saloon owner, or someone running a legitimate business in town that doesn’t want to be exposed. But the State Street agreement is just between Flo and me.”
“Uh-huh. Sounds complicated.” It was a flat statement, without inflection. Abe leaned back, his face blending even further into the room’s dark shadows. “Just wonderin’, Inez. Where does that leave me in your plans? Were you gonna bring me in? Or sell me your half of the Silver Queen and vamoose? Or what?”
“Abe, honestly. I hadn’t even thought it through that far. This came up all of a sudden. It all happened so fast, right after I saw the lawyer about getting a divorce.” Inez took a deep breath. “Well, you remember our earlier discussion. Without anything written down on paper, except that Mark won the saloon title, deed, and land, in a poker game, we—that’s you and I—have no legal claim. We have nothing. Mark holds all the aces, wherever he damn well may be. It’s his signature on the paper that went with him the day he disappeared. All he has to do is come back into town, waving that agreement and insisting that we were no more than employees.” She brought her hands up as if pushing back from a table. “Game over. We walk away with nothing.”
“So, you went in with Flo ’cause you figured it’d give you somethin’ apart from Mark? A backup plan?”
“Exactly.” She rocked a little. The chair squeaked. “I used the money that I’ve won and I’ve been saving on my own. The money I thought would take me and little William to San Francisco. The money I thought I could throw in my father’s face if I had to fight him. Money that would prove I could take care of William. As if my paltry savings would mean anything in the face of his millions.”
The awareness was bitter. She could never best her father on his own terms. She knew that now.
“So, I bought the next best thing. Insurance. By getting down in writing that I am half-owner of the State Street building, with a steel-clad option to buy it in its entirety, and a one-third partnership in Flo’s brothel on Fifth.” She smoothed the front of the velvet, feeling the nap through the thin silk of her gloves. “You know, Abe, now that this is out in the open, I’ll ask you to consider this. We could go in together and buy the building entirely from Flo. Be partners. Even bring in Bridgette in some capacity as a partner. But we would do it all in writing. All legal.”
Abe was silent. Then, “I gotta think about this, Inez. Truth told, I’m feelin’, I dunno, shut out. Can I trust you? It’s gotta run both ways. You talk about not trustin’ Mark. Well, you see, it ain’t just him. He always had my back. You, well, sometimes I get the feelin’ that if it ain’t convenient or not in your best interest, you might just take a powder and leave me wide open. It ain’t a good feelin’, Inez. I got my own concerns in this town. Think a colored man, just ’cause he’s got money in his pocket and the bank, don’t need t’ worry? You know better than that. In some ways, I got more cause to carry a gun in my pocket than you do. But that don’t stop me from bein’ your partner, standin’ up for you, and lookin’ out for us as a team.”
There was a knock on the door.
Abe stood up. “Guess your reverend’s here. Kinda early, but way I figure, this conversation’s over for now anyways. Sometime, if you got a notion, I’d like to see that agreement you signed with Flo. See what terms she set that you just signed with your eyes closed.” He walked over to the door and pulled it open. “Well, howdy, Doc. We weren’t expectin’ you. How was the meetin’ at the Veterans Hall?”
“Most satisfactory, most satisfactory indeed.” Doc leaned on his cane, burnished top hat in hand. “But, more about that later. Mrs. Stannert, if you please?” He peered at her with a secret smile.
Curious as to what had Doc smiling like a child on Christmas morning, Inez joined Abe at the door, and stopped, stunned. A knot of gentlemen stood outside her new gaming room, murmuring amongst themselves. Closest to the office stood Lieutenant Governor Horace Tabor, looking around with bemusement, smoothing his distinctive walrus mustache and ex-Governor Routt, deep in conversation with—her insides turned to ice—
Harry Gallagher. How dare he even set foot in here?
The figures shifted to reveal General Ulysses S. Grant, smiling and nodding at something Colorado Governor Pitkin said. Much to her astonishment, she also saw John Wesley, standing to one side of Pitkin, nodding in tandem to whatever was being said. The inevitable Kavanagh stood back a few paces, halfway between Wesley and Tabor. He looked supremely bored. As Inez’s gaze lingered on him, he smiled slightly and rolled his eyes heavenward in an expression of exasperation.
Grant unobtrusively pulled out a pocket watch, opened it, glanced at the time, and tucked it away.
Inez, glad of wearing her diamonds for this grand company, finally unstuck herself from the floor, and hurried to the group, accompanied by Doc and Abe.
“Gentlemen.” She allowed her brightest hostess smile to light her face. “Welcome. This is an honor, indeed. Please, allow us.” She glanced back at Abe and pantomimed “key” with questioning eyebrows.
He nodded, pulled a ring of keys from his vest pocket, and stepped forward to unlock the door.
They all moved inside. Abe lit lamps while Inez set out a variety of liquor from the cabinet. The visitors wandered about the room, remarking on the view and the appurtenances. She silently thanked Sol for being so conscientious as to keep the cabinet well stocked, just in case of any eventuality. He had even, she noted, included a bottle of Old Crow, reputed to be Grant’s favorite drink in the “old days.” At least, according to Doc. She poured a shot of the sour mash bourbon, thinking to offer it personally to her guest of honor.
She felt a presence behind her and turned, offering of Old Crow at the ready, to meet Harry Gallagher’s nearly colorless gaze. Silvered hair, dark mustache, impeccably groomed, there he stood. The man who had taken her affections a year ago, turned away from her, then tried to win her back when Reverend Sands entered the picture.
It took an iron act of will for her not to throw the shot glass, drink and all, in his face.
“You’re looking well, Mrs. Stannert,” he said. His gaze pinned her momentarily, butterfly to specimen paper. He pulled a cigar case from his pocket, chose one, closed it, and looked around the gaming room calculatingly. “Business must be good.”
“Never better,” she offered him a sub-zero smile, then turned her back to extract a small silver salver from the sideboard. “Mr. Jackson and I have made many improvements during your stay back East. Now, if you will excuse me.”
She swept past him, holding the shot glass steady on the tray, stepped up to Abe, and whispered, “Come with me.”
She could tell that this wasn’t part of his game plan, but she was determined that he share the moment with her. They approached Grant, who stood by the mahogany gaming table with Tabor and Doc.
“General Grant,” she made her voice as smooth and warm as a well-aged bourbon. “Allow us to welcome you to the Silver Queen and to Leadville. I and my business partner Mr. Jackson, who, by the way, is a Union veteran,” she glanced significantly at Abe so there could be no confusion as to whom she was referring, “are so honored that you would visit. We have a special stock of Old Crow at hand. Doctor Cramer had advised us earlier that this was your drink of choice.”
